Page 13 of Bound in Silk

Never enough. Never his equal. Never truly what Knox Vance needs or deserves.

I leave the restroom with my head high, my social smile firmly in place, years of gallery openings and donor events providing the training needed to maintain appearances despite inner devastation. Across the grand hall, Knox immediately spots me, his dark eyes finding mine with unerring precision. His expression shifts subtly, concern replacing his usual composed confidence. He sees too much, reads me too easily—a ability that alternately comforts and terrifies me.

As he excuses himself from his conversation group and starts moving toward me with single-minded purpose, I steel myself, determined not to let my newfound insecurities show. Knox can never know what I overheard, never see how deeply Alessandra's assessment wounded me. Because if there's any truth to her words—if I truly am just a convenient solution, just the mother of his heir, just a temporary phase until someone more suited to his world comes along—then the vulnerability I've already shown him is too much.

And the growing feelings I've been fighting for weeks are a dangerous liability I can no longer afford.

Chapter Eight

Knox

She wearsa smile that doesn't reach her eyes, her midnight blue gown still perfect, her posture impeccable as she moves through the crowd. But something has changed. I see it immediately when she returns from what should have been a simple trip to the restroom—a shadow behind her expressions, a tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before, a careful distance in her eyes when they meet mine across the room. Something's wrong. Someone has upset her. The realization sends a surge of protective fury through my body so intense it momentarily disrupts my conversation with the hedge fund manager droning on about market predictions. I excuse myself with the bare minimum of courtesy, moving through the crowd with singular purpose, my focus entirely on Seraphina and whatever has caused this abrupt shift in her demeanor. She sees me coming, her smile faltering slightly before she reinforces it, a deliberate armor I haven't seen her use with me since our early days back in New York. That, more than anything, tells me something significant has happened—something that threatensthe careful progress we've made, the walls she's gradually allowed me to breach.

"What's wrong?" I ask without preamble as I reach her side, one hand automatically finding the small of her back, anchoring her to me.

"Nothing," she responds, her voice perfectly modulated, her smile firmly in place. But her eyes—those expressive green eyes that have never been able to lie to me effectively—tell a different story. "Just a little tired. It's been a long evening."

In another setting, with other people, I might press harder, demand the truth immediately. But we're surrounded by New York's elite, by curious eyes and ears attuned to any hint of discord between Knox Vance and his newly announced fiancée. Whatever has happened, it can't be addressed here, in public, under the weight of scrutiny that follows us everywhere.

"Come with me," I say, keeping my voice low, my expression neutral for observers. "There's something I want to show you."

She hesitates, something like wariness flickering across her features before she nods once, allowing me to guide her away from the main gallery. I navigate through the museum with purpose, having memorized the floor plan when selecting this venue for the gala. The Egyptian wing is closed to tonight's event, its treasures silent witnesses to whatever has shaken Seraphina's composure so thoroughly.

Once we're alone among the sarcophagi and statues, I stop, turning her gently to face me. "Tell me," I demand, no longer bothering with pretense. "What happened? Who upset you?"

"It's nothing," she insists, but her voice wavers slightly. "Really, Knox. I'm just overwhelmed by the evening, by the announcement, by everything."

I study her face, noting the almost imperceptible redness around her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way she won't quite meet my gaze. "You're lying," I state, not an accusation but asimple fact. "Something happened between when you left my side and when you returned. I want to know what it was."

She turns away, moving to examine a glass case containing ancient jewelry, putting physical distance between us. "Has anyone ever told you that you're exhaustingly perceptive?"

"Many times. Usually right before they admit I'm right." I follow her, unwilling to let her retreat emotionally or physically. "Talk to me, Seraphina. Whatever it is, we'll handle it together."

The "together" seems to trigger something in her, a crack in the composure she's been maintaining. Her shoulders slump slightly, her reflection in the glass case showing the first signs of the tears she's been fighting to contain.

"I overheard something," she admits finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "A conversation I wasn't meant to hear."

The protective rage that's been simmering since I first noticed her distress flares hotter. "What conversation? Who was speaking?"

"It doesn't matter who?—"

"It matters to me," I interrupt, my tone brooking no argument. "If someone at this event upset you, they'll answer for it. Name them."

She turns to face me then, vulnerability and something like defeat in her expression. "Alessandra Winters. And some other woman I didn't recognize."

Alessandra. Of course. The socialite who spent six months in my bed two years ago, before Seraphina, during a particularly aggressive expansion phase when I needed convenient, uncomplicated company. A woman whose ambition was matched only by her calculation, who saw me as a stepping stone to the social status she craved.

"What did she say?" My voice has gone dangerously quiet, the calm before a storm that will destroy anything in its path.

Seraphina hesitates, clearly reluctant to repeat whatever she overheard. When she finally speaks, the words come out in a rush, as if getting them out quickly will somehow diminish their power.

"She said I'm not enough for you. That I'm too ordinary, too unambitious. That you're only with me because of the baby, that I'm just…a womb with good breeding potential." Her voice breaks on the last words, tears finally spilling over despite her obvious effort to contain them. "That you'll get bored with me within a year and move on to someone who can actually match you, challenge you, be your equal."

Each word strikes like a physical blow, not because of any truth they contain but because of the pain they've caused Seraphina. Pain I can see in every line of her body, every tear that falls, every tremor in her usually steady voice. Pain inflicted deliberately by a woman whose only power is her ability to wound others with precision-targeted cruelty.

I've been called ruthless, calculating, even cold in my business dealings. But in this moment, what rises in me isn't the controlled fury of a strategic mind. It's raw, primal rage—the kind that bypasses reason, that centers solely on protecting what's mine from harm.

"She's wrong," I state, the words inadequate to address the damage done but necessary as a starting point. "So fundamentally, completely wrong that it would be laughable if it hadn't hurt you."

---